Now We're Even
by ringaroundtherollins
Summary: Adrian Neville and Dolph Ziggler take turns protecting each other after attacks from rival superstars. What does it all mean? Dolph Ziggler/Neville. One-shot. Pre-slash. [Second part is loosely based on Monday Night Raw episode 1167.]


It became habitual for Dolph Ziggler to roll his eyes whenever he heard the opening guitar shred that welcomed Kevin Owens to the ring, even if it wasn't Dolph's match to fight. No, tonight it was Neville, the Man That Gravity Forgot, taking on…whatever Owens's nickname was. Fight Owens Fight? Stupid name, really. Everyone around here fought to the best of his or her ability. Owens wasn't special by adding that label to his name.

Dolph caught the action from backstage on the monitor. He had a match against Sheamus later on tonight and he was still preparing himself physically and mentally for the contest. Still, he couldn't help but serve as a silent cheerleader for his English friend, watching Neville watch Owens as he swaggered down the ramp. Ziggler wished to have a brief presence in the match, knock Owens in the teeth just once, bash those smug lips right off.

But it wasn't his fight. Neville could get it done just as well as Dolph could.

Or…so he thought. So he hoped.

The match was ruthless from the start. Dolph winced as Owens slugged Neville's ribcage again and again…Neville cartwheeled away from Owens to dodge another blow. He stumbled over his own feet, falling against the ropes, setting himself off for a driving headbutt.

"Come on, kid," Dolph mumbled. He'd find his way in charge of the match again eventually, Dolph was sure of it. The guy had talent. Dolph had witnessed it himself, worked with it and fought against it. But Owens was a brute. He had skills of his own and he was difficult to match brawn-wise.

Dolph found himself grimacing as the official tended to Neville, slumped over in the corner, holding Owens back with an arm in the air. Neville cradled his ribs, which now bruised with obvious damage. Owens was pacing the mat back and forth, just waiting for the next chance he had to strike Neville. All that stood in his way was the official.

Neville shook his head to whatever the official had asked him, then put a hand on the rope to lift himself to his feet. Obviously he'd told the official he wasn't done fighting, he was carrying on. Dolph praised him for that. He made a triumphant fist as Neville charged at Owens again, ready to fight after a moment's rest.

He had an advantage now, just for a moment, his impressive speed proving challenging for Owens to keep up with. He knocked Owens off his feet, getting a couple of punches in before scaling the ropes for a dive.

"Get him, get him," Dolph encouraged, not just for the sake of a defeat for Kevin Owens but for a well-deserved victory for his friend. Owens was on his feet again just before Neville leaped, but it was too late—Neville was airborne and Owens caught him in strong, waiting arms.

"No!" Dolph said.

Owens executed the nasty popup powerbomb. Neville's form slapped against the mat in a distinct wham! He was flat and still as a deadman during the cover. One, two, three. The audience was diverged in a reaction: many commended Owens for the win, others were disheartened by it. Dolph included.

But what bothered him most was Kevin Owens clearly wasn't done hurting Neville.

Against the official's claims, Owens elevated Neville high into the air again and achieved another nasty popup powerbomb. Neville's battered body crumpled before Owens's merciless attacks. Blow after blow rained from his wrists, drilling into Neville's sensitive ribs. Owens sensed weakness and he was taking full advantage.

Dolph was fuming. The guy had won—what was with his incessant aggression? It was something he carried with him to every match, it seemed, but this particular hostility was infuriating. Why was that?

Because it was Neville?

Was that it?

It didn't matter. Owens was a tyrant and needed to be stopped. Neville was in trouble and needed to be saved.

 _Hell, I'll do it_.

Dolph couldn't get out there fast enough. He tore down the corridor, sweeping past the Gorilla Position and charged down the ramp. A renewed shout from the crowd lifted at his unpredicted arrival. Owens's eyes were still clasped to the fallen Neville, and only raised with enough time to widen as Dolph sprung over the top rope and threw Owens to the mat. He lobbed punch behind punch behind punch into Owens, wherever was in reach: his chest, his gut, his face, his throat. A dazed Owens took a moment before retaliating with a swift kick to the back of Dolph's head. Dolph rolled onto his side, arms over his head and neck to shield them from further hits. He stretched his neck to look at Neville, who was rolling out of the ring, safe from Owens.

Now Owens had a new target. Dolph was ready.

The two ripped into each other, trading hits, countering swings, absorbing clouts. Owens seized a handful of Dolph's flowing blond hair and swung his fist into Dolph's nose.

Dolph collapsed to the mat. Owens towered over him. "You thought you could save him!? Huh!? Nice try!"

The crowd screamed, appraising something. Dolph wasn't sure what. These people went nuts over everything.

Suddenly Owens was no longer over him.

Neville, having recovered in the slightest after Dolph's advent, ascended the ropes and jumped from the top, his knee connecting with Owens's skull. Owens dropped to a far more vulnerable position, on his knees. Dolph scuttled to his feet. Neville snarled over Owens.

He looked over at Dolph. Dolph stared back, lips coiling into a smirk.

Together they kicked Owens while he was down. He was already in a place of movement restriction because of his pain, his enervation. It didn't stop either man. They pummeled him until at last several officials made their way to the ring and put an end to the post-match brawl.

Dolph draped an arm over Neville's shoulder, partially towing him out of the ring, onto the ground. Neville was out of breath, and Dolph worked to stabilize his rapid heartbeat. "Damn, that felt good," he huffed. "Haven't hammered him like that in a while." His fingers gripped the taut skin of Neville's arm. "Hey, you okay?"

"Yeah, I'll be fine," Neville grunted. "Thanks for that. I owe you."

"Don't worry about it. I just didn't like watching him hit you like that."

"During the match, or after?" Neville smiled.

"Well…neither, I guess. But the job's to fight, not to torture your opponent."

"I appreciate you looking out for me."

"Of course. I'm just an awesome guy like that."

Neville giggled.

"Need to be checked out by the trainers or anything?"

"I think I'll be alright."

"You should let them check you out." He just wanted to make sure Neville didn't carry an undiagnosed injury with him to the next night, the next fight. That was way too risky.

"May have them look at my ribs, if they don't stop hurting. Thanks, though."

Dolph's arm was still around Neville. He drew the touch away, somehow feeling colder as a result. "Alright, well, uh. Better get ready for my match."

"Good luck, mate," Neville said. He tapped Dolph's shoulder with his fist. "I'll be rootin' for ya."

"Thanks." Dolph felt an unusual fluttering in his chest, watching Neville go. A funny feeling, one he wasn't used to. He'd abandon the thought for now, positioning himself before his waltz back to the ring for a fight of his own.

Having Neville on your side was a good thing. The guy was a star. Kindhearted, hell of a fighter. Anyone would be lucky to have him.

What made him so damn special, though?

* * *

 **ONE WEEK LATER**

Opportunity of a lifetime. All his.

John Cena's Open Challenge for the United States title was usually answered by men who just couldn't get the job done. Whether they weren't strong enough or Cena just intimidated them too much…neither factor applied to Dolph Ziggler. He was ready to show the world what a stud he could be.

The walk from his locker room was quiet. The end of the night made for emptier corridors as superstars packed their things and left after their scheduled matches. He thought he was alone.

A sudden eruption of footsteps from behind proved him wrong.

Dolph hadn't time to turn around before he was attacked. An angry force plowed into his back, knocking him off his step. Pain streaked up both arms as his wrists broke the fall. Three heavy-duty feet flattened him to the dirty floor, crushing him there, thrashing him over and over and over. Three feet but it could have been twenty for all Dolph knew, from how quickly the strikes were coming. It wouldn't stop. One of the kicks smacked his skull against the floor. His vision blackened, spots taking over his sight. Muscles blazed from his head to his legs. He couldn't even cry out or ask questions; all he knew was how badly this hurt, whatever it was, whoever was responsible.

Dolph felt two arms lift his upper half from both sides. Now he was being dragged.

He made out a familiar, irritating voice in his daze.

"Telling _us_ to get serious? Let's see what he thinks about this…"

Xavier Woods?

Hold on. Was the New Day responsible for this?

Dolph's legs were useless behind him. He could wiggle them a bit but his disorientation kept him in a drunken state. He blinked in attempts to get some of his sight back. His own entrance theme was blasting. He could see bright lights and colors in indistinguishable shapes. The shapes sharpened into the crowd, the ring, John Cena standing in the middle of it. Big E and Kofi Kingston were the ones towing him.

This _was_ their doing.

Why? What the hell for?

"John, John, John, John, John," Xavier's voice blared through a microphone.

Xavier Woods had to speak over chants of " _New Day sucks_!" "John, last week…what were you saying about getting _serious_? Is this, uh… _serious_ enough for you?"

"You like this?" Big E barked. He and Kofi let Dolph drop to the ground.

 _A-are they serious? Attack me from behind, ambush me, to prove a point to Cena? Th-they think they're up for being the next champ…makes no sense_ … His own thoughts were incomprehensible. Dolph rolled onto his back. He watched the New Day approach the ring. _No…hell no…that chance was mine tonight…that title…was gonna be mine_ …

Dolph felt a gust of wind pass him over.

The wind turned out to be a purple blur, a five-foot ten English superstar careening down the ramp. Dolph blinked again and made out the fascinating yet true sight of Neville, grappling Kofi Kingston to start. Kofi hit the floor, flopping on impact. Neville kicked his partner Xavier's jaw next. Xavier spun all the way around, stumbling until losing his complete balance and toppling to his knees. Big E lunged at Neville to grab him but gravity's forgotten fella was quicker. He shot up in a jump, positioning himself on Big E's broad shoulders, then executed a backflip from this height, shoving E backwards into the barricade.

Tired as he was, pained beyond his senses, that felt pretty damn good to witness.

"John," Neville said, quick to recover Xavier's microphone. "Dolph Ziggler came out here tonight to accept your challenge. He's been a bit delayed, unfortunately, but he's the man who wants to get it done." Neville watched Dolph as he spoke, pacing the floor between the fallen New Day members and Ziggler like an active shield. "So I request you keep that challenge open—for _him_. On a better night." He looked up at Cena, who pursed his lips together.

"Fair enough," Cena answered him.

 _Wh-what's he doing…what's he doing this for_ …

Neville squatted beside Xavier Woods and yanked his head off the floor by his frizzy hair. "And if you go near him again before that time? A Red Arrow right through the ring will be the least of your worries, you understand me, Woods?" His charming accent was tinted with a controlled temper.

Xavier could only groan as Neville pushed him towards the floor again. Then he dropped the microphone and rushed towards Dolph, falling on his knees beside him.

"Are you alright?" he asked. Dolph felt the warmth of Neville's hand secure his own in a hold.

"M-maybe. Y-yeah, think I'll be good…" Dolph creaked. "I am awesome, after all."

Neville smiled weakly. "I'm sorry I didn't get here sooner."

"Point is you're here now…"

Whoa. Where had that come from?

But soon the view of Neville was replaced by several officials, medical attendants, pulling Neville away so they could reach Dolph. "No," he grumbled as the men felt over his body, checking for a full range of injuries. "A-Adrian…"

"What's that, Dolph?" one of them asked.

"Where'd he go?"

"I'm right here, Dolph." It was him.

"Adrian?"

"It's gonna be okay. I think he's out of it." Dolph knew the second statement was not aimed at him.

Someone tugged on his arm, trying to get him to his feet. "Get off of me," Dolph groused. He nudged his shoulder, pushing whoever it was away. His head ached like a bitch but his focus was coming back. How humiliating. Beaten and dragged, exposed in total defeat, in front of the entire WWE Universe.

Dolph looked up. Neville was still there. What was he sticking around for? Why was he seeing to this?

Dolph stretched his arm towards Neville. He didn't want the assistance of these guys. He just needed a friend.

A good friend…perhaps one of the only guys backstage who'd even think to offer a hand the way Neville had. And he hadn't just offered a hand. He'd destroyed the guys who did this to him. Rescheduled a match for the U.S. Title with Cena. Now he was making sure Dolph Ziggler was okay.

Neville took his hand and lifted him up, slowly but surely. Standing proved to be difficult.

"You should let them check you out," Neville stated.

"I'm a stubborn ass, and I refuse your suggestion." He eyed each of the trainers who'd come to his aid. Several of them were still tending to the members of New Day. _What a mess_. "Really. I'm fine. Thank you."

He nearly contradicted himself when he took a few steps forward and slumped over, moaning. His back was on fire. His head did not care much for the movement; it was swimming now.

Neville wrapped an arm around his waist and towed him towards the back. "Come on, Showoff."

"Not much to show off tonight," Dolph muttered, scoffing. Not something he'd say aloud to just anyone. He took pride in being the best man around, no matter where he was.

"What's that now? Those guys trapped you. They dragged you out, beaten and depleted. Obviously you weren't ready for it. Nobody could have warded off all three of them in an ambush."

Dolph rolled his eyes. _Neville probably could have_. "I'll have them next time. You'll see."

Neville grinned. "If you say so, Dolph."

"Thanks for, uh. Y'know. That."

"Sure thing, lad. Now we're even."

"I guess we are."

Neville placed a soft hand behind Dolph's head, fingers rubbing his neck. "Go home. Get some rest."

His eyes were…actually kinda beautiful. Were they more hazel or green? Hard to tell. Interesting blend, like a sparkling rock you'd find on the beach…

Dolph shivered at the thought. _I'm still way out of it, apparently_.

"Yeah, I think I'll do that," Dolph said. "You too. You've earned it."

Neville removed his hand. Once again Dolph felt that strange cold. "Good night, Ziggler."

"Night, Neville."

 _I called him Adrian before, didn't I? Huh. What the hell_?

For the second time Dolph watched Neville walk away. For the second time he questioned the foreign sensation in his chest that had absolutely nothing to do with his injuries. For the second time he was wondering just what made Neville so special…a question without an answer.

He fabricated one for himself. _Dunno. But I'll get some sleep and this'll all be over._


End file.
